Victoria Cross
by SweetPseudonym
Summary: Most of the cases Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson encounter impact the sleuth; people wanting to exploit him, kill him, and undo him. This is not one of those cases. John is the target in this one-shot and when the focus shifts, Sherlock is forced to reconcile some sentiments that he's been harboring in his mind-palace. Johnlock ya'll-Johndom also. Slow-burn, mild plot, one-shot.


**Author Note: **Hey ya'll, I wrote a Johnlock fanfiction. I enjoyed writing it and I hope you guys enjoy reading it. Some disclaimers though, this is a one-shot in every sense of the words. I wanted it to be like a single shot in a film as well as a complete little story, also sex. It's an unestablished relationship in the beginning but it gets a little graphic so...on a scale of anatomical to romcom, I'd say it's in the middle somewhere. It's unbeta'd, though a friend of mine did read it to make sure it wasn't total rubbish. Of course, I don't know why people include this but enough people do it that I guess I should too...I don't own BBC's Sherlock or the characters etc etc (and if I did, the show would be a liiittle different). Anyway, enough chatter-enjoooooy.** P.S.** There's no specific time in the show when this fic would occur. I do reference things from the entire series and if that bugs you then too bad so sad-just pretend Mary is like John's cousin or something and that he was never married-the end. **Edit: **A kind reviewer (read as, rude ass who apparently doesn't understand context clues, writing styles, or bedside manner) _kindly_ suggested that I break up the dialogue so that the story is easier to read. Hope this helps those who haven't, more politely, voiced their opinion.

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Victoria Cross.

It was difficult to ever be in the position to say 'the day started normally' when a person was the flat-mate of one Sherlock Holmes, but as things went, the day had started normally at 221b Baker Street, albeit it was a bit chilly in the early spring morning. Nevertheless, the atmosphere of calm evaporated quickly, as per the norm when it concerned the world's only consulting detective and his live-in doctor. Currently the lanky sleuth and his tagalong compatriot were dashing hurriedly down the cobbled streets of the city. Street lamps were still lit and the sky was just beginning to brighten on the horizon. Steamy boughs of exhaled breath clouded in front of Sherlock's grimaced lips as he tried to keep pace with their would-be assailant. More accurately, the detective was trying to keep pace with John Watson, who had given chase moments before and had somehow overcome his own stature and taken the lead.

Sherlock was gaining on the dusky-haired man though, his own coat billowing about his long legs.

"John!" he shouted as best as his winded lungs could manage, which ended up not being quite as forceful as he would've liked; just one of the many burdens of being human. The good doctor hadn't heard, or refused to acknowledge that he had, as he continued to tail the masked man without so much as a glance behind.

The detective only hoped that his friend had had enough sense to wedge his gun in the waistband of his trousers, as he was fond of doing, even after the numerous lectures that Sherlock had given him about the number of misfires that occurred every year that end up going down the legs of gun owners who refused to holster their weapons correctly. The taller man attempted a second time to hail the doctor.

"John, stop!" John turned to look inquisitively at Sherlock and as he did so, their attacker had the good sense to seize the opportunity and turned to fire at them. A bullet blazed a trail past John's right ear, nicking it and causing some displaced hairs to scatter into the midmorning air. The metal bit drove into the stony ground, narrowly missing Sherlock's own feet. John, having witnessed the near miss, completely forgetting that he himself had just been hit, was enraged into action as he whipped the pistol from his backside. He coolly leveled the barrel, his shoulders stiff and his back pole-straight, ever focused on the prize. His finger lightly squeezed the trigger. Sherlock doubled over to shield his ears, a split second too late, as the shot lunged through the frosty air, leaving a billow of smoke behind in its wake. But the assailant was already turning, turning a corner and gone as the bullet smacked into the wall of an adjacent building.

"Damn!" proclaimed John, bringing his pistol arm down in a swift motion. His ears were ringing and he was perturbed that their attacker was getting away. He was struggling with the idea of pursuit but the fog of vengeance soon cleared and reasonable thought rejoined him.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, are you okay?" he rushed to his friend's side, the man just then readjusting his posture. John indelicately shoved the pistol back into his waistband as Sherlock righted himself, the doctor's hands going to his friend's arms and shoulders, his eyes franticly searching for any sign of injury.

"John," Sherlock started but realized his words fell on deaf ears and so became more vigorous.

"John! I'm fine, I'm fine. You needn't worry, he was a bad shot and that only makes identifying him that much easier," he paused, "Well, not _that_ bad of a shot it would seem…" The lanky detective trailed off as he stilled his friends prying hands and rose his own to the doctor's wound, a small rivulet of blood trailing the shell of his ear to drip from the lobe and onto his shoulder. John, flustered by his friend's unprecedented concern, brushed the detective's hand away and dusted imaginary dirt from his khaki jumper.

"I'm alright, Sherlock. But what are we going to do about that…man? Woman? I've no idea. They were bloody psychotic, regardless." He laughed good-naturedly but the thought that he didn't know who had attacked them ate at his mind. He needed to know who attacked them so that he could…_what? Get revenge? Please. _His own thoughts mocked him, he knew it was ridiculous; he wasn't a soldier anymore and he _definitely_ wasn't above the law, as Greg made sure to make them aware of at every crime scene they visited.

Sherlock, having picked up on the concern of his friend, made to reassure him, "Don't fret, John, the game is on!" The declaration was meant to lift both of their spirits and, although Sherlock was more or less certain about whom the goon was, he had to take a moment to reflect on recent events. He had realized something during the current proceedings. He had felt fear for the second time in his life, akin to the H.O.U.N.D case, and though it would be reasonable to say "_Of course you felt fear! You nearly got shot!_" it wasn't the moment that Sherlock himself practically got shot, but rather it was the moment that John _had _been_._

He realized that he must've been standing awkwardly in front of John, doing the mile long stare that customarily took purchase on his features when he was lost in thought, but he didn't care. Finding out the precise moment of fear, _that_ was important; to separate it, to analyze it, to find the cause and stamp it out. He paused the scene in his mind palace, rewound, played, rewound again. When had his heart stopped? When had his palms begun to sweat and his blood chill? It was at the precise moment of John turning, when the gunman rose up his weapon and pulled the trigger, when that bullet left its barrel and flew past his friend's face and Sherlock saw the small hairs fly into the mid-morning light in slow-motion. He hadn't given a single worry for himself when that bullet had planted itself at his feet. Well, that was certainly a new development. He couldn't very well spout that he was a high-functioning sociopath when faced with the fact that he actually worried about someone else before himself. Filing away that tidbit of information for later rumination, Sherlock rejoined his friend in the street.

"-erlock! Sherlock! Is anybody home?" exasperated the good doctor.

"Hmm? What? Where was I? Oh yes, the game is on! Now let's get back to the flat." Sherlock again became lost in thought as he hurriedly brought out his phone and began texting, presumably Lestrade. He stopped at the street edge and John took it upon himself to hail a cabbie. Moments passed in tense silence, John preoccupied with clotting his ear with a napkin and Sherlock scrolling exuberantly through web-pages.

The doctor watched his friend from the corner of his eye, enjoying the rapt interest Sherlock had in whatever he was dissecting. The taller man made slight noises, little hums or guffaws, as he continued his hunt. John had come to appreciate the sounds; it was like watching a play unravel. At first there is the exposition, the gathering of all the clues, then the rising action, with research into the mystery, the climax, confronting the villain, the falling action, usually it involved Lestrade of Mycroft taking care of the legal lose ends, and at last the dénouement, the quiet lull back into domestic bliss from which Sherlock inevitably goes mad. The doctor settled in for the short ride back to Baker Street, packed in closely to Sherlock and his bulky coat. The chill outside caused the windows to condensate, patchy clouds forming on the glass. John noticed that his side abutting Sherlock was much warmer than that of the side facing the window. The warmth was comforting and made the doctor relax into the cushions of the cab, his shoulders finally losing their taut edge.

As the cabbie made a hard turn, their knees knocked together and John noticed Sherlock's fingers still over his mobile screen for but a second. Neither of them removed the connection of their knees, both legs leaning in to rely on the other's weight. They remained like that until they arrived at the flat. Sherlock exited the cab first, as usual, and left John to pay.

"Sherlock, one day I'm not going to be here to pay the cabbie so don't-" the opposite door slammed shut and John was left to grumble quietly to the driver as he fished out his wallet for the fare. When the shorter man finally disentangled himself from the vehicle, he noted that Sherlock had left the flat door open for him and he could see Mrs. Hudson jauntily dusting in the stairwell.

"Where did you boys run off to so early this morning? I could've sworn that the building had been on fire!" cheerfully goaded their landlady as she patted away dust from her apron.

"Well, you know, sometimes we get…_difficult_….clients," stated John quite mysteriously as he climbed the stairs rather more quickly than he usually did. Mrs. Hudson harrumphed at such a noncommittal reply. Sherlock and John both knew that she secretly enjoyed all the stories of their ludicrous antics. The door to their flat was ajar as John approached the landing, shoving it the rest of the way open with his forearm.

"Sherlock?" he didn't see the lanky sleuth in the living room and so made his way to the kitchen.

"Sherlock, have you found something?" The man in question was facing the sink, a fresh cuppa steaming in hand and his back toward his friend. The stillness alerted John to something amiss.

"Sherlock?" he approached slowly and placed a hand on the taller man's shoulder.

"…trajectory…" muttered the detective.

"'scuse me? What?" John inquired. Suddenly Sherlock became aware of the shorter man and the fact that his hand was still resting on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I've messaged Lestrade about the gunman. It was the owner of the flower shop. You recall the woman who visited us three days ago whose grandmother was murdered for the inheritance. The flower shop owner is…_was,_ I presume…her husband." That was a clever ploy to distract John from Sherlock's melancholy and it worked like a charm, every time.

"You mean…that bloke…the one with the lilies? Are you serious?" sputtered John.

"I'm not sure which I'm more surprised about, the fact that he had it in him to murder someone or the fact that he was married."

He laughed slightly, shaking his head and making short order of pouring some tea for himself. It was just then ten o clock in the morning and the sun was fast approaching its zenith.

"Seems you solved that one too quickly and now we have nothing left for the rest of the day," shrugged John as he gingerly poured tea into a china cup.

"There's always mittens," joked Sherlock, referencing the case of a spinster's missing cat that collected dust in Sherlock's inbox. John chuckled warmly and Sherlock couldn't help but notice the smile lines around his friend's mouth or the way his eyes softened at the edges. John's overall posture just seemed to unwind as his shoulders dropped and muscles relaxed.

"Perhaps it's a good thing we don't have any more cases today…" Sherlock trailed.

"What? Sherlock Holmes is satisfied with having nothing to do? Now I really am surprised," stated John laughingly as he lazily wandered over to his chair and lowered himself into it with a relieved sigh.

"Everyone needs a day off at some point," Sherlock claimed lackadaisically.

"Everyone, yes, but not you," prodded John. He meant it to be a joke but Sherlock actually seemed put-off by the comment.

"Oh, Sherlock, I didn't-" started the doctor but he was cut off.

"Spare me the sentiment, John. It's fine."

Sherlock moved to the window and gazed out through the sheer curtain at all the people starting their day; people hailing cabs, walking to breakfast with their friends, hurriedly driving to work…how mundane it all was. _But that is considered normal to society, to John_, thought Sherlock. Did he want to be considered normal by John? Now that was a question that could take some time. While Sherlock seemed content to stare out the window for what seemed an eternity, John finished his tea and took up drafting a new entry for the webpage.

"_Lily of the Valley_, what do you think of that as a title, Sherlock?" John half-heartedly asked his friend, not expecting a real answer, or any at all.

"Hardly appropriate, don't you think?" Sherlock replied, startling John enough to rattle his cup as he was pouring himself more tea.

"Well, if you-" began John.

"No. there's nothing 'pure' about killing an old lady for her money," Sherlock interrupted for the umpteenth time that day.

"I was going to say that the granddaughter-" John interjected.

"Was probably in on it," declared the consulting detective.

"Not everyone is a coldblooded murderer, Sherlock," John's sentence trailed under his breath, him not really feeling all that up to a battle of wits early in the morning, especially after the run in they'd just narrowly escaped.

"No, I suppose that wouldn't leave much of humanity left now would it?" wistfully claimed Sherlock, who had now taken residence in his chair and began rosining his violin bow.

A light, misty rain started speckling the windows as the darkly haired man plucked a single string. The low reverberation bore an eerie resemblance to the pang he had felt in his chest earlier that day. A thick silence hung in the air, momentarily broken by Sherlock tuning his instrument or John tapping on his keyboard. Mrs. Hudson even came and went, depositing a tray of biscuits on the side table, hardly disturbing the atmosphere. The disposition of the present circumstance seemed foreign to John; he and Sherlock hardly had time to merely sit in each other's company, not discussing some grisly detail of a case or Sherlock's ever determined addiction. What do they talk about besides that? The detective was well known for detesting small talk and John wasn't really one to discuss his work at the hospital or, god-forbid, his dates, which always ended with Sherlock giving too much in depth detail about his would-be girlfriends in an attempt to put him off and stay focused on cases. _What does that leave then_?

John stared intently at his computer monitor, the letter bar blinking like a heartbeat, waiting for something to happen. Sherlock stood from his seat to again be silhouetted by the window's dull, misty light. He pulled the violin up to nestle beneath his chin, his long, sinewy arms stretching out from his sides only to bend inward in one smooth motion. A slow drag across the strings snapped out a harsh staccato that echoed into the silent flat. The doctor watched on, enraptured by his friend's passion. The thought that this man claimed to be a sociopath was laughable, for no one could hold something so lovingly and still declare themselves void of feeling.

It was a melancholy tune that seemed to capture the stormy weather outdoors and the stillness in the flat perfectly, fluctuating between strong, quick gusts of noise and soft, smooth melodies. John brought his tea cup to his lips, closing his eyes and losing the tension in his brow as the hot fluid soothed down his throat and the notes in the air prickled at his eardrums. At that moment, John realized, not for the first time, Sherlock had emotions, maybe they were buried deep within his mind-palace, but he had them. He just couldn't express them any other way than through the strings of his violin. Right now, the song seemed like a sad one, confused or struggling for something. On the last note, Sherlock dug the bow into the strings, the sound becoming hard but long lasting. The hum faded gently into the air.

"Is everything alright, Sherlock?" The good doctor knew he shouldn't pry, or rather that prying would get him nowhere, but he felt as if he'd be a bad friend if he didn't at least broadcast that he was available for a chat if Sherlock needed one. Quiet reigned supreme for a few beats before Sherlock lowered the violin, resting it by his thigh.

"Everything is fine," the detective claimed but he was actually mildly alarmed that his friend picked up that something was wrong. He hadn't thought that John would be that observant but maybe he hadn't been giving him enough credit of late. Of course his violin playing would give him away. When he lost himself in thought while playing, his emotions would always rear their ugly head, reminding him that he was actually a human being.

"Well, I'm here, you know, if you need to talk," John offered weakly, grabbing a biscuit from the tray. Sherlock scoffed and whirled around, about to lay into the doctor about how he wasn't some feeble child who needed coddling when John's mobile went off.

"Oh, maybe it's Greg with something," John offered as he fished into his back pocket for his phone.

"Greg? Now we're acting like we have pretend friends, are we?" laughed the detective.

"Lestrade, Sherlock. Greg Lestrade." Rolling his eyes, John unlocked his mobile screen and saw that he had a text. Upon opening the message, Sherlock noticed John's brows furrow and his eyes grow concerned.

"What? What is it?" The taller man crossed the distance between them easily, snatching the phone from his friend's hand and ignoring any protest. The number on the screen was listed as 'unknown' and the message was threatening.

"'I know what kind of man you are'? What is this, a jaded ex-lover? All the more reason why you should just come to terms with the fact that it's better to stay focused on the cases and forget about your dalliances." Sherlock casually tossed the phone back to his friend. John fumbled to grab it but it landed squarely in his lap instead.

As the detective went to pack away his instrument, John continued to reread the message on the screen.

"Sherlock, I don't think this has anything to do with ex…lovers or the like. I mean, yes, usually you end up taking the piss and they invariably break up with me but it's usually not me that they wind up hating." The doctor made a valid point.

"Hmm, true enough but then your ex-girlfriends don't have my mobile number, now do they?" Sherlock counterpointed.

"No but this also says 'you are,' not 'your friend is.'" John brought up his hand to rub at the bridge of his nose. _So much for a relaxing day_, mused John.

"Quite right and chances that it could be a misdial are slim, considering the alacrity of internet search engines," Sherlock trailed but a frightening smile bloomed on his features, one which John associated with Sherlock's genuine excitement.

"It seems we have a case after all!" A snap of the violin trunk slamming shut and Sherlock was up on his feet, pacing the living area.

"Or maybe this person just doesn't like me very much?" hoped the doctor, sipping more at his tea and trying to ease away the tension headache forming between his eyes.

"Well that's fairly obvious but there's more to it. While yes, people as individuals tend to voice complaints 80% more often than praise, one has to have a predisposition for confrontation. While the internet affords people the ability to act out on their aggressions more readily and with less consequence, texting someone's phone is personal and takes slightly more drive than common anger. They could have posted a comment on your blog stating just the same as the text but that wouldn't have been enough, _frightening_ enough. This person wants you to know two things, a) that they don't fancy you and b) that they have access to your personal information. Now tell me John, is your mobile number advertised anywhere on the internet or perhaps at Bart's? Surely you ex-girlfriends' had it but typically after a break up, people delete their ex's number within two weeks and by my calculation, it's been a good while over that since you've had any _romantic _relations, am I wrong?" Sherlock paused for a breath, waiting animatedly for a response from the disgruntled man sitting across the room.

"Sherlock," breathed the doctor, exasperated.

"It's probably just a prank, I really don't think anyone would go through the trouble of threatening _me_ when my flat-mate is the world's only consulting detective. No offense, but I'm fairly certain that you have more enemies than I do," calmly stated John. In typical Sherlock fashion, the detective huffed and collapsed onto the couch abutting the wall.

"But no, I don't advertise my personal mobile number anywhere online or at Bart's. Also no, I haven't had any 'romantic relations' in the past month, thanks to you," grumped John. Sherlock smiled when his friend finally caved with the information, and maybe a small amount of that smile was due to his success at foiling his friend's endeavors.

"Curious, then, that this 'unknown' caller was able to retrieve your number." Sherlock's wheels were already turning as the words left his mouth like an afterthought.

"Just ignore it, Sherlock, that's what I'm doing," stated John as his finger hovered over the delete button for the message. His thumb waivered as it nearly completed its task but a change of heart had John quickly shoving the device back into the pocket from whence it came.

"I'm sure it's nothing," the doctor said, more to reassure himself than anyone else.

Just then, Mrs. Hudson was shouting up the stairs in her usual, anguished fashion, "Sherlock! That officer is here to see you again!"

"What officer!" The sleuth hollered back.

"The one who always has that confused look on his face, Greg-something-or-other," she warbled up the stairwell.

"Lestrade," both John and Sherlock stated in unison just moments before said detective busted through the flat door like he owned the place, casting a backward glance at their landlady.

"I swear to god, that woman, how many times-"

"What is it, Lestrade? Wait, let me _guess_, the lily man gave you the slip? Or is it such a slow day that you missed us and decided to pop by?" Sherlock was up from the couch and pacing the usual spot in front of the window, a small path was starting to wear in the floor, and John joined the detective inspector by the door.

"No, no, we caught up with that individual just a few blocks from where you said he would be. He didn't even put up a fight. To think he was the sort who would…" he trailed off. Shaking the thought away, he continued, "Well, anyway, this showed up for you today down at headquarters. It was addressed to you and before you worry, we already checked it for explosives."

Naturally the shortest of the group took a few, reflexive steps backward; being strapped with semtex would do that to a man. This didn't go unnoticed by the great Sherlock Holmes, who took the slight package gingerly from his, friend? Colleague? Lestrade. He smoothed the packaging under his digits, feeling the grain of the paper, and then brought it to his nose for his trademark whiff.

"German manufacturer, purchased locally, however," he went on to peel apart the close of the envelope, slowly scrutinizing the way the glues stretched.

"There's a grease stain here, on the flap, probably from a mechanics repair that was nearby the post shop." John stood silently, the face of awe, which was exclusively reserved for Sherlock, plastered on his features.

"And though you said that it was left for me, there is no such notation on the package, simply this address, which was not tended to with any great exertion," exclaimed the sleuth as he delicately peeled opened the small package and removed its innards. He confiscated from the manila parcel a small, black box that had a faux leather impression. After ominously eyeing his two compatriots, his lanky fingers pried open the box with a snap. Inside, laid neatly on a white satin liner, was a Victoria Cross medal.

"I do believe that this was intended for someone other than myself," exulted Sherlock, handing the case to the ex-soldier.

"I haven't seen one of these in years," John reveled at the item clutched in his callous hand but the disinterested detective had moved on from the medal and continued to probe the packaging, pulling out a thin scrap of paper with typed print. The note read 'I know, a lie.' Sherlock held the paper against his forehead, eyes closed, as if he could absorb its secrets through osmosis.

"What in the_ bloody_ hell could that mean?" Lestrade burst into the silence like a bull in a rodeo.

"Well, I was awarded one of these when I retired from the fusiliers. Someone obviously doesn't agree with it." John sighed and went to recline on the couch, placing the medal on the coffee table.

"It's been a long time since then though. I wonder why it hasn't happened before." He scrubbed at his face in exhaustion and let his head fall to rest on the back of the couch.

"You don't think someone could actually hold some grudge from, what, eight years ago, do you? And _why_?" The detective inspector was glancing back and forth between the flat-mates, his hands on his hips, pushing his khaki coat behind him. Sherlock remained by the window, the mind-palace tension between his brows forming.

Stillness and quiet reigned for a long moment while Sherlock sorted the facts and analyzed what he could. There was a door in his palace that he was continually locked and wouldn't open, John's door. Sure he knew what kind of man John Watson was, the most loyal, courageous and thoughtful man he'd ever known, but his past had a shroud placed over it and Sherlock couldn't wave off the mist to clear the picture. He would have to inspect his friend closer than he ever had occurrence to do so before. Another moment passed and Lestrade began to rock back and forth on his feet with impatience. John remained placid on the couch as the stress of it all ebbed over him.

What finally broke the silence was an unsolicited question of "Coffee?" from Sherlock.

"What?" The detective inspector was lost.

"I inquired as to whether John would like coffee, perhaps from the café on the corner." The lanky man sauntered toward the desk and released the note from his grip; it floated slowly to rest upon the laptop there. John sighed animatedly from his side of the room.

"You don't think this is a threat of some sort? It seems pretty menacing to me!" Greg was flabbergasted by the lack of concern of both adjacent parties.

"Regardless of its intent, there isn't enough information from this single package to be able to trace the culprit. We know that it's a threat of some kind, yes, but not the nature of it. Does this person want to expose John to the papers or does he want something more? There's no way of knowing based on a text message, a grease smudge and a medal. Although the fact that it was left for John at Headquarters is disconcerting in that it lets us know that this person knows that John is helping me with cases and that we frequent that place. We could run around the whole city and visit every post shop that's close to a mechanic but I'm sure even you can understand how much time would be wasted in that, probably fruitless, effort. So, in an attempt to appear unflustered and in control, I suggest that we go for coffee."

Lestrade's trademark exasperation graced his face.

"I haven't got time to get coffee, there's too much work at headquarters to take care of, especially considering this lily man from this morning. And if you think that it's not an imminent threat, then I'll leave it in your hands," he paused, "wait a-did you say _text message_? There was something else and you didn't think to tell me about it beforehand?" He was growing irritated.

"It was a show, much like this package. No real substance behind it. But yes, as you say, the threat is not imminent and it will be in my hands," Sherlock retorted, agitated himself at having to explain every nuance of his deduction.

This entire transaction between the two detectives was being observed by John, who silently listened in on the entire thing. As Sherlock said, though, there really wasn't much that they could do.

"Yeah, coffee sounds good," finally spoke the doctor; the day was gloomy and he could use something to help perk up.

"Fine, excellent, and you were just leaving, detective inspector?" Sherlock gestured toward the open door that Greg had been firmly planted in front of since his arrival. Lestrade subtly glanced between the two before sighing in defeat.

"Alright, fine, you handle this but if something else happens, you _call_ me, got it?" He turned to head down the stairs.

"Of course, Craig," replied the detective as he went for the door knob.

"It's Greg, for god's sake!" hollered the man as he made his way down the stairwell.

"Sure." Sherlock forcibly shut the door to the flat, leaving the gangly detective alone with his flat-mate.

"So," he began but stopped when he saw his friend's appearance; he was tired, haggard almost, and seemed disheartened by the fiasco. What could it be that someone thought that this man, John Watson, could possibly have done wrong? This man who served his country, who helped save lives in wartime and, in fact, was continuing to do so at the hospital _and_ on Sherlock's cases. Just then the thought struck him, like a great shot from the heavens. Something in the war, when he was an army doctor and then he was injured…perhaps the note writer thought John had died from the injury that retired him from the war and now had discovered-

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed to an empty room, his hands thrown up about his head, "that would explain why there hadn't been a note prior to today." Apparently John had left in the middle of his entire mind-palace process, but Sherlock could hear him in his rooms, probably changing his attire from the jumper of this morning's chase to more appropriate loungewear. Perhaps it was a good thing the doctor hadn't heard his sudden exultation of puzzling something out, Sherlock wouldn't want to cause him any added concern.

"Sherlock, are we going?" John called from his bedroom.

"What? Yes, of course. Let's go display our solidarity," he exclaimed as he swept his coat onto his shoulders and quickly wrapped his scarf around his neck. Moments later, Dr. Watson appeared by the flat door, looking rather more dapper than he usually did, by Sherlock's calculations. John had a new button-down on, recently pressed, complete with a fresh jumper, in his usual style with the cables along the front, and he smelled faintly of something spicy. The sleuth tucked away all these little facts into the room labeled 'John.' Curious that one's flat-mate would worry about himself so much when it was just coffee with his friend.

Sherlock lead the way from the flat and jutted from the building in his usual fashion, long strides and no glances behind.

"So just coffee then? Nothing ulterior?" questioned the doctor as he struggled to keep up. Traffic along the streets was abundant as the afternoon was waning and the sky began to darken.

"Yes, just coffee." But Sherlock was lost in thought as he answered, simultaneously observing all the things surrounding them; the cobbled street, a woman talking on her mobile passing by, a yappy dog in someone's garden, people who looked out of place, the buildings they passed and the number of windows each one had. There was so much data all around them and the consulting detective soaked it up like a sponge.

"The Victoria Cross is usually awarded, during wartime of course, for self-sacrifice or performing a duty in the presence of one's enemies, does that have any significance to you?" Sherlock glanced to the side as John caught him up, the shorter man's hand brushing his as he avoided an oncoming pedestrian. There was a pause by both men and for a moment, Sherlock's brain activity was suspended, as if frozen in time for a split second. John cleared his throat and tucked his hands into his dark jean pockets.

"Well, I was given one during my career in the fusiliers, like I'd mentioned before. It was for the number of men's lives, soldier's lives, I was able to save while stationed out there. It wasn't anything more than any other army doctor received, I don't know why I would be exceptional or memorable in any way." Sherlock hummed at the information, nothing he really hadn't thought of before. He knew John was an army doctor, knew that he'd saved lives and taken them, he said as much himself, but why was he being singled out? As they reached the café, the taller man met the door first and held it for his companion.

"Oh, thanks." John swept past him into the café and that spicy aroma floated up to his olfactory nerves, lighting up the synapses deep inside his brain tissue.

Just then Sherlock concluded that the shorter man must have a date later on that evening, since he had put so much effort into his appearance, but Sherlock hadn't noticed any new women come into the doctor's life and not knowing did what it always did, it irritated him. However, there were more pressing things to be concerned about. Sherlock quickly snapped back to attention and ushered them to a small table for two framed by a window at the front of the restaurant. As they both got situated at the table, a waiter silently came and placed two menus in front of them. Sherlock didn't bother looking as he ordered two coffees, one black and one with light cream and sugar.

"I'm not going to ask about how you know how I take my coffee," John submitted as he looked over the biscuits and sarnies on the small café menu.

"It's probably best," replied the man across from him, his long legs were bunched up under the petite table and he only regained comfort by slotting them between the appendages of his shorter friend. John's eyes stopped scanning the menu for a moment, Sherlock watched for approval and was about to ask 'Not good?' before his friend's eyes regained their perusal. The doctor didn't seem willing to acknowledge their overtly close proximity and Sherlock felt no need to mention it, just to tuck away any information he could, like how the doctor seemed to have read the same line on the menu 37 times. Why was John being so jumpy? It clearly wasn't concern about the unknown messenger or the package because he hadn't shown any apprehension when they'd initially received the item. The waiter came and went, depositing two identical porcelain cups filled with steamy, dark liquid.

"So you have a date this evening," began Sherlock, attempting to ease his friend into discussing more serious matters. John sputtered his coffee and quickly brought a napkin to sop up any spillage.

"What makes you think that?" He coughed out, obviously flustered.

"You've got a new shirt and jumper, clean shoes, not to mention you've applied cologne of some sort. Though I've no clue who it is that you've met that I don't know about already," claimed the sleuth as he sipped at his beverage.

"There's no date, I just have new clothes. I'm allowed to have new clothes without having a reason for it," grumped John as he wiped a small spot of liquid from his saucer. Sherlock hummed, which was occasionally a sign of disbelief.

"There's no date, Sherlock. Even if I had wanted to, you scare them all off." Dr. Watson waived over their server and placed an order for some scones.

"That's far from the truth and you know it. I usually tell you everything about them and scare _you_ off, that or they're too needy for your attention and become resentful of your work."

"The work you force on me!" Their banter, though sounding hostile to the untrained ear, was their usual dance, one they both furtively enjoyed.

"Yes and speaking of work," began Sherlock, "I have an idea as to why this mystery person is suddenly contacting you, so long after your retirement." He reached for the cream on the table at the same moment as John and their fingers collided.

"Please," offered the taller man and he doubted his useless brain could've come up with much more than that. It was most curious that contact with John seemed to slow his somatic nervous system, let alone what it wrecked on his cognitive function. John too seemed distressed by it because his hand shook slightly as he poured more cream and his eyes settled on everything but Sherlock's side of the table. It wasn't a matter to which Sherlock was familiar but it was something that he would suss out. It _was_ similar in nature to that morning's events, how his heart had stilled and everything seemed to cease around him when that bullet flew past John's head. What…_is_ it?

"What is it then?" Prompted John as the scones arrived. He gathered one up and dipped it casually into his coffee.

"Oh, your injury." Reflexively, the shorter man rotated his shoulder and stretched his neck to the side.

"What about it?"

"Had this person, this man, been in the war, been in the Northumberland fusiliers, and witnessed you do your work, perhaps he saw something disagreeable. He would, no doubt, have taken action had he not thought you were dead, from _that_ injury," Sherlock eyed his friend's shoulder.

"I don't know what I could've done that would offend another soldier so much that he'd want to go to the lengths of murdering me. I tried to save lives, mostly, not destroy them." John was disturbed by the idea of one of his brothers-in-arms despising him so deeply. Sherlock lifted his eyes from his cup to view his friend and was struck by the forlorn expression gracing his flat-mate's countenance. He had to rectify the situation, immediately. But, in that very moment, a distraction arrived in the form of their waiter.

"This was left for you at the counter, sir." He handed John a parcel indentical to the one that they'd received earlier that day. Sherlock quickly stood from his seat to gain a better perspective of the café, casting his eyes in every direction to see if the messenger was still lingering, but he came up with nothing.

"Give it here," ordered Sherlock, sitting back down after noting that John's mind wasn't in a state warranting much precaution with the package. The man just stared across the café, his gaze set upon the barren wall, lost in thought.

"Same paper, same cobalt ink, no address, also no grease…" Sherlock turned the item about, scrutinizing every inch.

"Undoubtedly the same person," he went to pry it open with care and removed an identical black box.

"Curious," he voiced to no one in particular. He checked the weight of the box and noted that it too was similar to the one from earlier that day.

John seemed as though his mind was in quicksand, the more he struggled with the ideas of a fellow soldier wanting to harm him or what it could've been that he'd done, the deeper and deeper he sank into melancholy. A quagmire of long forgotten thoughts engulfed his mind, causing him to notice little of his surroundings. Sherlock popped open the box and found, lying on the same white satin, another medal.

"George Cross this time," he stated. It was a medal given to those who served with courage during times of extreme danger. As he went to inspect the envelope further, a slip of paper fell from it and slid onto the table, 'REPENT' typed boldly on its front. John's eyes were gone, a dull, glassiness shielded him from everything going on.

"John?" Sherlock leaned over the table to take his friend's good shoulder in hand, gripping it tightly. When there was no reaction from him, he left a few pounds on the table and moved into action, crossing the distance between them quickly.

"Let's handle this at home, shall we?" Sherlock tucked his friend under his arm to escort him hurriedly back to their flat.

"I'm…I'm alright," claimed John feebly, though he was pale and could hardly support himself. Sherlock didn't need a near comatose doctor to protect from a foreign enemy out in the open. It was time to even the playing field.

"Off we go!" The sleuth uttered under his breath, that spicy scent surrounding his senses as he moved. He wasn't usually this near to his friend and it was having an interesting affect on him. They cohabitated, of course, and would occasionally round a corner and knock into each other, or back up into each other, as Sherlock had done many times while not paying attention during the analysis of molecules under his microscope. It felt comfortable, having his friend tucked into his side, like two broken pieces of the same vase fitting back together faultlessly, and that blasted cologne was wrecking havoc on his brain. He'd have to determine the elemental makeup of it later and perhaps use it as a form of chemical warfare in cases to come. The walk back seemed both an eternity and a flicker as Sherlock kicked the door open at 221b.

"Good heavens!" shouted Mrs. Hudson.

"What on earth happened to poor John?" She had just been coming from her flat when they'd entered and was now buzzing about them as Sherlock navigated the stairs.

"He caught a bit of a flu, I wouldn't come too close, I'm probably already infected." His cover-up was flawless, as usual.

"The flu! Oh my, well I'll leave you boys to it then. Just, ehm, call if you need anything." Her hand fluttered by her mouth in concern as she shut the flat door quietly behind her.

Sherlock, nearly carrying his flat-mate at that point, moved toward the couch and deposited his friend there. Moments later and he was flitting about the flat, going through cabinets to find a clean glass, that _didn't_ have eyeballs in it, and getting fresh water for his incapacitated blogger. He gripped John's hand in his as he placed the cool glass into it.

"Drink," he commanded. John followed instruction amazingly well for one so distraught.

"I just…I don't…under_stand_," the doctor mumbled and took a few sips of water. Sherlock knelt in front of where his friend was perched, one shin flush with the ground, and placed his hands on John's knees in a gesture of reassurance.

"There are many reasons why people bother with the actions that they chose to take in life. Sometimes it's a product of truth and sometimes it's that of delusion. There's no way to tell, at this point, which we're dealing with; what or how this person thinks. Concerning yourself with that will only lead you to question your own past and memory is only so accurate, the reality of which will cause you to anguish. I'm sure that men have died as a result of what you had to do in the war, or what you were attempting to do, but you are not the kind of man who would give up easily on saving another man's life nor are you the type of man to take it wantonly. This I know as fact. What we need to do now and focus on the present and on the future. Find out who this messenger is and get to him before he has a chance to take his action." Sherlock wasn't accustomed to comforting people and, in fact, he never had before, but he felt as though he had done a decent enough job.

After placing his glass on the coffee table, John heaved a sigh and bent his head to rest on his friend's shoulder in defeat, his faced buried in Sherlock's coat collar and scarf.

"You're right, you're _always_ right." He chuckled into the thick fabric clothing his flat-mate's shoulder. Sherlock was a statue.

Accidental contact was one thing, like the brush of knuckles or knees, maybe even casual touching he could understand, like a guiding hand or a pat on the back, but explicit touching, contact intended for the sake of contact, that was something that Sherlock could not work out. Not for himself anyway. At that moment, his motherboard was short circuiting because John Watson's breath was on his neck and sweeping past his ear and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled and he couldn't understand _why_. Well, he could understand _why_, of course he could. It was basic human physiology to exhibit responses to stimuli; The Woman had reaffirmed him of that when he'd taken her pulse. He understood why a person's heart might race or why the pupils would dilate. He had a thorough knowledge of the human pulmonary system, including all ailments of the heart, such as mitral valve prolapse, which he was currently experiencing symptoms of himself. Did the thermostat break? He'd have to inform Mrs. Hudson straight away. As John straightened his posture, perhaps realizing that he'd been too long collapsed and depending too much on his friend's support, he brushed his lips along his flat-mate's cheek, a behavior that he customarily saved as thanks toward females but somehow his brain managed to skip past that requirement just then. He sat back slowly, Sherlock still frozen and kneeling in front of him. His gut felt like it was in his throat, trying to suffocate him as he realized what he'd done.

Sherlock was blinking, just blinking and the good doctor thought he might've had an aneurism. John coughed.

"So, yeah, thanks for that." He was intently gazing at the ceiling fixtures with his elbows bent outward and his hands on his hips. The detective's cheek burned as if scalded or slapped, his nerve endings on fire from the transference of one's body heat to another, something so simple and yet profoundly meaningful. Before he could ponder on the meaning of it for very long, a text tone rang out through the apartment like a gunshot and precluded him from his reflection. He stood quickly and whirled around, not wanting to face his friend in such a discomfited moment.

"It's Lestrade wanting to know if anything's developed," he spoke softly, only loud enough for John's benefit.

"Will you tell him about the second package or shall I?" offered John.

"I've already done it." The sleuth snapped his phone shut and shoved it into breast pocket.

"We need our man to show his hand. We know now that he intends to do you physical harm and just learned of your recovery from the injury you received, otherwise he would've contacted you before now. He knows your mobile number, that you work with me and that we frequent police headquarters; all of that is more than likely the result of the media attention we've received of late. We also know that he's been following you since he intercepted us at the café and it's safe to assume that he knows where we live because of that. _But_," he spun back around to face his flat-mate, his index finger jutting toward the ceiling in exclamation, "he hasn't made a move yet which indicates that he isn't _ready_ or that he _can't_. Signs point to 'isn't ready' because if he was in military service, he obviously has no qualms about taking the lives of people he doesn't agree with, i.e. _you_, and is more than likely equipped to do so. So why isn't he _ready_? Most likely the folly of nearly all men, ego, along with his eagerness for you to 'repent'; he wants to know that you know why he's doing it. I suspect, however, that he will make it known to us both soon. He's been waiting a long time for this, well, if we are to include the time before he knew you weren't dead."

It always amazed John when Sherlock would accomplish such eloquent speeches with seemingly a single breath. He could hardly even think of so many words in such a short span of time, let alone apply logic to them.

"Brilliant," he asserted with such absoluteness that he thought he saw color rise in the detective's cheeks, "so what do we do now? Just wait for him to try to kill me?"

The shorter man stood from the couch and attempted to busy himself with making a pot of tea. There were far too many thoughts vying for attention in his brain, some about the soldier trying to assassinate him and some about Sherlock and the kiss he'd just graced along his cheek. John didn't want to think about all the swirling notions, or what they might represent, and so he snatched up two porcelain cups and waited for the kettle to boil. Sherlock considered his colleague from the living area, watching as the man went around the kitchen and eyeing how his jumper revealed a thin line of skin as he went to reach for the cupboard. His eyes lingered at that spot even after John had moved away, lost in thought.

"Sherlock?" The doctor was placing saucers on the side table when he noted Sherlock having a stare.

"Yes, we wait," answered the taller, dark haired man after much delay, which John was used to.

"Alright then."

The doctor went in search of his pistol, which he'd discarded earlier when he'd changed clothes for coffee. Finding it in his bedside table, he stuffed the cool metal into his jean waist, pulling his shirt and jumper over it for concealment, and returned to the living room. Sherlock had taken purchase in the lounger by the fireplace, legs crossed to mimic the number four, and the kettle was whistling loudly in the kitchen. Though he was attempting to distract himself with the monotony of making tea, the memory of the short occurrence just moments before kept rearing up in the forefront of John Watson's mind. The skin against his lips had felt so delicate and yet unyielding, had a softness and coolness about it and yet it had seared into his mind just as it had seared against his lips. He couldn't figure out why it kept persisting in his thoughts. It was almost as if-but he stopped himself from thinking that contemplation, put a halt to any further exploration of that rabbit hole into which he would inevitably fall. Sherlock was his flat-mate and, he dared to say, friend and nothing more was to come of it. He cared for the man, certainly, he would take a bullet for him if it came down to it, but that was all. That was all.

John forcefully poured the liquid from the kettle into its designated cups, nearly splashing it straight out onto the counter. He tried to remain detached like Sherlock, pull back the reins of whatever emotions he was feeling; there was simply too much going on that day to waste time pondering the what-ifs of his and Sherlock's relationship. He nodded his head in silent agreement with himself and proceeded to deliver the tea to the living area. Sherlock had his hands steepled before his face, his elbows on his thighs, and was staring intently into the hearth. John placed the cup quietly beside his friend and took the seat opposite. Again they found themselves, for the second time that day, sitting quietly in one another's presence. One person seemingly lost in thought and the other trying very intently on avoiding it.

"So," began John, "this mystery person, you think he's a soldier from the fusiliers?"

Sherlock didn't even blink at the question, didn't move, and hardly looked as if he was even breathing. The sleuth was deep in thought, attempting to riddle out the circumstances behind their tormenter. John waited for a reply and when it was obvious that he would receive none, sipped at his tea and unfolded yesterday's paper from the side table. There was a headline concerning some political parties in the Middle East on the front page, directing the doctor to page 56 'for more information.' His subconscious piqued at any mention of wartime dealings and so he began flipping pages toward his destination. There, in bold type at the top of the page read 'Troops Pulled from Mid-East Due to American Exploits.'

"Sherlock," uttered the shorter man, about to make mention of the article. He read on as he waited for response and saw that the article was written in retrospect, the soldiers having been pulled out three months prior to the article being published.

"_Sherlock_," he was more insistent this time and the distress in his voice caused the beckoned man to break his line of thought and glance up at his cohort.

"What?" Sherlock glanced at John's face, then down to the paper, then back at John's face, quickly taking action and snatching the thin papers from John's grasp. His eyes rapidly scanned the entire page, slowly widening as some comprehension hit him.

"Two and a half months ago, we concluded a case that had rather large media attention," started Sherlock, "the story of which was published in most newspapers. I believe quite a few of them had our photograph." He let the paper droop to lie on his lap, his eyes intently locked with John's in mutual understanding.

"So this man just returned from the battlefield, finally able to return to a normal life when one day he picks up a paper and sees you and I on the front page, very much alive, and makes the only logical choice he can, to exact his payback for something I'd done in the war." John exhaled and bit his lower lip in discontent, his knee starting to bounce in his usual anxiety-ridden way. Sherlock was about to comment on the situation when he stopped all motion, tilting his head toward the stairwell as if he were a hound picking up the scurrying of a rat.

"John," Sherlock murmured in a hushed tone, gesturing with his hand for the man to remain quiet and stay put. He delicately removed the papers from his lap, not making a single sound, and stood from his chair.

There was a pipe on the desk, one primed with darts laced with a strong sedative that he'd retrieved from the Poison Giant, a title which John had affectionately written for the case. Sherlock gathered the pipe in hand and tiptoed toward the side of the door so that, were it to open, his presence would be concealed. John watched his friend's movements from his position, his hand instinctively searching out the gun still tucked into his waistband.

A knock echoed off the flat door and into the parlor, John eyed Sherlock for instruction and the taller man motioned for him to invite their guest in.

"Come in," he called, thinking that at least the man had manners and really hoping not to be shot at again that day.

"Hello? I've come to ask for some help. I heard that Sherlock Holmes lives here," the man, of stocky build and tanned skin, timidly stepped past the threshold, looking about in an unassuming manner. Not spotting Sherlock behind the door, the man turned and anchored his sights on John Watson. The moment he thought that he and John were alone, his entire temperament changed; his shoulders and back stiffened and his face hardened.

"Captain John Watson," he began with a sneer, his teeth slightly yellowed by frequent tobacco usage. The doctor was struggling to put the face to a name, to a time and a situation.

"You probably don't remember me," started the man again as he took a few paces into the room, "I was just a Cadet with the fusiliers, but my brother, my brother was a Second Lieutenant, you might remember him." John stood when the man approached, facing him directly.

"I don't-there were a lot of men out there," John tried to sound casual and thrust his hand out in feigned offering but the man didn't take it.

"His name was Tom Carter." The ex-soldier twisted his head about to take in the housing of the man who killed his only sibling.

"Tom…Carter."

At that moment, the doctor wished he had a mind palace of his own, somewhere with all the infinite details of his life tucked away so that he could retrieve them at any moment like a rolodex. So many faces and innumerous circumstances came to mind of when he'd been a few seconds too late to save someone's life. The assailant looked sickened and aggravated when Dr. Watson failed to remember the one person the ex-soldier held most dear in his life.

"You killed him! You let him die!" The man spun and jabbed his finger accusingly at John, his face taking a red tint in his rage.

"My brother was all I had left in this god forsaken shithole of a planet and you let him die and I _saw _you do it! You could've saved him but you didn't! I know you could've," his voice lowered in an anguish that had festered and become abhorrence over the years. Rapidly the images of a particularly hot and dreadful day during the war rushed back to the forefront of John's thoughts. They had been a caravan, traveling between posts positioned in the sandy dunes of the desert, when an IED had triggered underneath one of the vehicles. John recalled the heat that radiated from the explosion, burning the faces of men who were closer to the scene. It had been so bright that not many people had actually witnessed what had happened, shielding their eyes from the flames and smoke. There were so many screams and agonized moans from the fallen soldiers but a response was quick from the onlookers. Everyone, not injured in the blast, descended upon the site and pulled their brothers-in-arms from the wreckage; many didn't survive. John attempted to save the lives that he could but he wasn't god, he couldn't save them all. He and another doctor on his team split up the injured and barked orders to others for assistance. There were already a few men who had succumbed to their injuries, those who had bled out from mislaid limbs or shrapnel. There were some that were holding on and Captain John Watson had sprinted to their sides. One man, he recalled, had outwardly appeared to be completely unharmed but he was choking on blood and showed severe signs of internal bleeding, his abdomen swollen and bruising. John knew that there were copious amounts of injured men that could be saved that needed him and that he couldn't sacrifice time on someone who had no chance of recovery. In times of war, thoughts and feelings that seem detached and horrendous were necessary in making life changing decisions and so he pulled out his medical kit and administered the man a strong pain killer, to ease his passing. The doctor was entirely focused on his duty and hadn't noticed a lone Cadet nearby, on his knees with tears silently rolling down his cheeks. It became clear then, to John, why this man blamed him for his brother's death. To any layperson, it would've appeared as if the injured Second Lieutenant had been perfectly recoverable, but to a trained eye it had been quite obvious that he was not in such a state. A person who had witnessed the scene would have just seen John Watson take the man's pulse, palpate his abdomen and inject him with a disposable needle which was quickly chucked after administration.

"I understand, I didn't know him, but Tom-" started John and was interrupted by the other man.

"Don't you say his name! He was my family and you let him die!" The messenger began franticly digging into his pockets for what Sherlock concluded was a weapon. In his alarm, Sherlock shifted his weight and caused the floor to creak. The man shot his eyes toward the noise and simultaneously whipped out a pistol, aiming it straight at John's forehead. The aggressor saw Sherlock raise a wooden pipe, as if in slow motion, and just as the needle left its lodgings to soar through the air, the man's trigger finger squeezed the cool metal beneath his grip. Sherlock's heart stopped as his mind raced.

Their attacker was a trained combat soldier and was standing less than ten feet away from John. His hand was shaking in his rage but the likelihood of him missing his target at that range was less than twelve percent. Sherlock's stomach turned as he saw John's head twist to the side and his body fall backward, landing with a thump upon their parlor floor. In that very moment, however, the needle found its mark in the intruder's neck. The man turned to face the sleuth and his hand went up to rip to protruding object from its new home. Before he could even wrap his fingers around it, he too fell face first to the floor, his nose buried in the rug by the threshold. Sherlock's fingers flew over the keyboard of his phone, shooting off a text at lightning speed. There were no movements from his flat-mate and icy panic took residence in his veins.

"John!" He ran to his friend's side, falling to his knees in one fluid motion. He gripped John's shoulders and shoved his ear to his friend's breast, checking his heart beat while his hands gripped here and there for signs of injury. Once he heard the strong utterance of the muscle pumping in and out, the detective breathed a sigh of relief. John lay sprawled upon the floor, breathing heavily from the recent exertions, a gash extending from above his ear to the back of his head bled profusely. Their assailant remained collapsed, face first into the rug by flat door, as if he'd been a statue that had been knocked over.

"Are you hurt?" Sherlock's voice sounded like a quivering shout in the silence that had followed the storm. John, who had had a few moments to recuperate from the drama, took a shallow breath and caught Sherlock's probing hands in his own. He held them steady against his chest, gripping the long violinist's fingers tightly until his knuckles whitened.

"John?" Sherlock lifted his head and locked eyes with the dusky haired man below him. His chromatic orbs darted about his friend's face, catching all the details he could absorb about the state of the man, but John had enough of it. He had enough of the clumsiness between them, the furtive glances and the intimate proximities. It wasn't until his life had nearly been ended, _twice_ in one day, that he realized that he didn't have all the time in the world, no time to think about what little gestures could mean or what feelings might reveal and certainly no time to think about the consequences of what he was about to do.

Quickly, he abandoned one hand and swept his own behind the dome of his friend's skull, burying his fingers deep into the dark, silky tresses there. Using what little strength he could muster, he lifted himself from the floor and brought his mouth crashing into his flat-mate's, sealing their lips forcefully. Sherlock, shocked beyond all comprehension, could hardly think but his body reacted quickly by throwing his arm out to brace his weight from tumbling to the floor while his other hand grasped at the front of his friend's jumper. It wasn't a gentle kiss at first. It started desperately and heated. John, the more practiced of the two, took the lead and began to move his lips against Sherlock's stiff ones, forcing them to part in astonishment and gliding his tongue into the other's mouth. The shorter man groaned at the delight he found there and Sherlock seemed only too willing to go along for the ride.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock let someone else take control. He let another human being dictate his future and it was, and could only ever be, John Hamish Watson. He didn't know what to do with his hands or his mouth, was he supposed to shut his eyes? His brain was operating at the speed of light and yet seemed altogether useless in its effort. John took notice of his uncertain temperament and continued, happily it would appear, to be the instructor for a lesson Sherlock had never taken before.

John repositioned himself, sitting up and sliding his hand down to loosely hold Sherlock's neck, running his thumb along the base of his skull as he delved into the riches that were contained within the hot chasm of his friend's mouth. Their breathing became labored as Sherlock kneeled with John positioned between his thighs, succumbing to whatever his friend had to offer him. As the kiss deepened, it gentled and became less frenzied; Sherlock finally taking steps in the dance instead of just following the lead. He moaned into John's mouth, his senses overwhelmed with the spice and salt that assaulted him. His fingers clutched desperately at the wooly jumper, which he finally released in order to bring his hands up to encase John's jaw.

Somehow it all made sense, like a pressure had been building since the day they'd met, deep in the shadows that they dare not discuss, and now it was unconstrained. Sherlock's heart thundered behind his ribs so loudly he wondered if John could hear it. He took his friend's pulse discreetly and noted that his too was rapid. For a split second he thought of how interesting it would be to test the serotonin levels of someone's blood that was engaging in similar activities. John's hands had moved and soon no other scientific thought entered the sleuth's mind. The good doctor had slid both hands to his friend's shoulders and had angled his head to lap at the juncture under Sherlock's ear, his wild hair tickling the bridge of John's nose. "John," sighed Sherlock, grasping his friend's neck in hand while his other moved to brace behind himself.

The shorter man was getting brazen, slowly applying weight to maintain the dominant position, easing Sherlock back onto the rug. John didn't know what he was doing. Not true. He knew _exactly_ what he was doing, just not why he felt such a compelling need to do it with Sherlock. But, the second their lips had touched, he had felt it, the compulsion to possess this man. He needed to have Sherlock, as a flat-mate, a colleague, a friend, and a lover. It wasn't something that he'd ever thought before, or dared to think of, but now it became incandescently apparent. There was always so much tension between them, such wanton emotion they had no name for but now the light had breached the clouds. Love. He loved the mad idiot, with all his neuroses and ill temper, even the addiction he could handle in order to be with this man for as long as he was able. Impassioned by his epiphany, he shoved Sherlock back the rest of the way, never losing contact with their kiss, successfully gaining the advantage and perching on the taller man's hips.

It seemed they were both experiencing the appropriate physiological response to their proceedings. John ground his hips into his friend's, their hardened lengths shifting along one another. Groaning in unison, John decided it had obviously been a good idea the first time around and so he did it again. Sherlock grew dizzy, he felt as though his skin was ablaze and the sensation that John had just thrust, quite literally, upon him was so novel and foreign that he feared he would go into a fit. But there was no fit, just a blinding need to feel John against him and hold him firmly, a growing need burning deep in his gut. "Sherlock," John moaned above him, moving his hips in the same languid, torturous motion and kissing along the detective's neck. The shorter man was grasping for buttons and ripping seems in order to feel the flesh shrouded by the silk shirt. When he made it past the offending garment, his finger tips gingerly caressed along Sherlock's pale chest, taking in every sensation he could. Sherlock released a shuddered breath, completely at the mercy of his friend's machinations.

"John I-" he didn't know what he was trying to say, maybe 'slow down' or 'I don't know what I'm doing,' both of which were difficult to admit to. John seemed to understand him implicitly however and stopped to rest his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Sorry, sorry, I know," he began but Sherlock silenced him by running his fingers into John's sandy hued hair.

"It's fine," the consulting detective attempted nonchalance but it proved a tricky task, "there's just…a lot to _absorb._" The fact that Sherlock Holmes admitted to needing time to adjust to a situation proved the momentousness of it. John sat back and was straightening his jumper when, quite suddenly, Lestrade came romping up the staircase.

"What was this text all about, Sherlock?" he hollered from the flight of steps. Upon reaching the landing, Greg came to a shuddering halt at the scene before him. Lying on the floor, at the threshold, was a seemingly unconscious man that had a dart protruding from his neck. Upon further investigation into the room, Lestrade came to another man on the ground, this one being named Sherlock Holmes, whose shirt was in such a state of dishevelment that it was nearly vulgar, with mused hair and tinted cheeks, looking as if-

"No," drawled out Lestrade, in that disbelieving way of his, as he turned to see John Watson in a similar state. The shorter man was ruffled and perched in very near proximity to the detective, his cheeks also tinted as if he had just recovered from physical exertion.

"I don't _believe_ it." Lestrade was at a loss for words and was about to comment on the whole ridiculousness of the sight when a muffled groaned emitted near his feet. Before he had a chance to say 'Scotland Yard,' John and Sherlock had both exhumed themselves from the floor and very quickly separated to opposite ends of the parlor, leaving Lestrade to handle the invalid who was regaining consciousness on their floor.

"Right, I'm sure you boys have plenty to sort out besides this lot," exclaimed the police detective, reaching into his coat pocket for his handcuffs. As he clapped them onto the incapacitated man, he called for backup to transport the man to a facility for questioning.

"I'll just leave you to it then!" he shouted to no one in particular, as both of the flat-mates had evaporated into thin air. Normally he would've hounded them about what was going on or why this stranger had a dart in his neck, but Lestrade didn't feel up to getting into it, not with the atmosphere the way it was. He could harass them later about it, after the uncomfortable air in the flat cleared out. Mere moments later and another officer arrived on scene to assist Greg in transferring the man from the floor, into a car, and on to Scotland Yard. John listened intently as the police engine clattered into the distance and released a breath he hadn't consciously been holding, once again tugging at his jumper for modesties sake. He was peeking through the curtained window, near the couch, when Sherlock materialized beside him.

"We have some things to discuss," he stated, matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, I should say so." John turned and peered up through his lashes at the taller man who was gazing at him with intense consideration. Sherlock had grasped, quiet surely during the slapdash events of the day, that he felt something for John Watson, a very powerful sentiment he hadn't experienced in his life yet, though he was familiar with its name. He hadn't been sure that he was capable of such feeling; god knows he had tried in his younger years, but it proved to be something that could not be forced. The Woman had teased the emotion from him once or twice but it was always in a familial, platonic sense of the word, barely scratching the surface of the ardor which seized him moments before Lestrade had cut short their discovery.

"John Hamish Watson," began the sleuth as he neared his companion, reaching his hand to lie softly on John's cheek, "you are, without a doubt, the most _important_ person in my life." It was astonishing to Sherlock that he had failed to notice it before, for all the criminals and vagabonds who incessantly tried to get at him would always go for his one weakness, John. Everyone else saw it before he did, the only thing anyone ever saw before he did actually. The good doctor raised his hand to grasp at Sherlock's.

"I know," he whispered and brought the hand to his lips, brushing a soft kiss along the knuckles there. Sherlock's eye softened as he took in the tenderness that his friend treated him with, while he himself had blood drying in his hair.

"Let's get you cleaned up," provided the sleuth as he took his hand away and grabbed hold of John's in order to drag him to the bathroom where the medical supplies were kept.

"I'm really ok," sputtered John, though his head did smart.

"Thank god for that," Sherlock muttered as he shoved the shorter man down to sit on the loo. He busied himself with gathering the cleaning fluid and gauze and got to work sterilizing his friend's wound. John winced at the stinging liquid and Sherlock leaned in to sooth his nerves by placing a chaste kiss on his forehead. The shorter man jumped a bit but swiftly recovered.

"It might, uh, take me a bit to get used to that," muttered John.

Sherlock chuckled and finished his job.

"I suppose you'll have to eat your hat after being so adamant about not being gay," joked Sherlock.

The doctor cleared his throat and retorted, "I'm _not_ gay and no one ever asked or assumed that I was bisexual, not that I was before…well…this." He gestured between himself and the sleuth.

"I doubt anybody will really need much time for adjusting." The taller man mumbled to himself but John caught it all.

"I suppose you're right, of course," he sighed.

"By the way, did you phone Lestrade? He got here pretty fast and I'm surprised he didn't stick around to question us."

"Yeah, I texted him right after," Sherlock paused, "all the commotion." He hated thinking of the split second that he'd thought John might've been dead. It was the worst sensation he'd ever experienced and he wasn't wanting to ever again.

"Sherlock, I'm _fine_, see?" John stood quickly but misjudged the distance between them and knocked Sherlock back against the wall, causing himself to trip and fall forward onto the other man. Sherlock caught his shoulders in his hands, his chin buried in sandy hair. He breathed in slowly, enjoying the aroma of John, when the man looked up at him with hooded eyes. Before he could think, John was up on his toes and closing the gap between them. The grip on John's shoulders tightened as the desperation awoke in them again. John slotted his leg between his friends, bringing his knee up in an enticingly lewd manner to grind against Sherlock's crotch. The sleuth moaned into John's mouth, throwing his head back and taking gasping breaths.

"John, I really don't-"

"I can lead, if you want," interrupted the doctor. Sherlock nodded his head enthusiastically and brought his hand up to grasp John's neck, once again joining their mouths. John thought that perhaps they were moving too quickly, that maybe they would somehow ruin whatever it was they were fostering between them, but he also knew that these feelings between them had existed for years; they had been drug out like a critic enjoying a gourmet meal, savoring every morsel and John was starving. He became forceful in his mission, dragging the jacket from Sherlock's shoulders to discard haphazardly on the bathroom floor. He attacked the pale neck with a vengeance, dragging his tongue unhurriedly up Sherlock's jugular to bite tenderly at his earlobe. His friend grew wild with the sensations being administered upon him, the length between his legs becoming stiff with need and John tended to it willingly. He rocked his own arousal against Sherlock's as he pressed him firmly to the wall, disheveling the taller man's hair with his hands. John released a groan of satisfaction when the sleuth's hands finally took their own action to slide under his jumper and splay out along his stomach. The cool touch felt icy against his fiery skin and the juxtaposition was maddening.

"Sher-Sherlock, let's uh, move this somewhere a little more comfortable," the doctor huffed out in hurried breaths as he realized that they were slowly destroying the bathroom with their activities.

"Perhaps you're right," the other man conceded and moved toward the door and out into the hallway. He turned left toward his bedroom and John was hot on his heels.

As soon as he made it into the room, John was on him again, his arms wrapped around him and guiding him back until his calves hit the side of the bed, causing him to fall onto the softness of the mattress. The plummet caused their arousals to shift against one another and they both groaned loudly into the flat.

"Lotion? Something? Do you have anything? A rubber?" John's eloquently posed questions echoed in Sherlock's intoxicated brain. He concluded that he'd never need to resort to common place narcotics again if this was what was like being with John Watson. Soon his brain cleared enough to respond.

"Lotion in the nightstand and why would I ever need a rubber?" He scoffed.

"Too right," replied the shorter man as he went for the drawer to retrieve the aforementioned item and then dug out his wallet for the rubber.

Sherlock gave him a displeased, disparaging look and John shrugged.

"Well it isn't like I was actually ever going to be able to use it," he argued. He threw the tools onto the bed and got back to business. His trained fingers went for the buttons on Sherlock's silk shirt, trembling slightly, but soon the garment parted like the red sea. He slowed his motions, taking in the sight of Sherlock Holmes, completely undone by him. The man's arms were up about his head, which was stretched back revealing that strong neck that lead to his pale chest, dusted with hair and marked by two dusky pink nipples. The doctor's fingers were tentative in their progress but seemed suddenly invigorated in their efforts as he dove forward, clasping those peaked nubs between his thumb and forefinger and twisting ever so slightly. A strangled gasp emitted from the prostrated man, powerless to his friend. John soon replaced his fingers with his mouth, balancing his time between each side before easing his way down the center line, kissing a gentle circle around Sherlock's bellybutton as his hands reached down for the trouser button below.

He made quick work of the fastening and Sherlock lifted his hips in aid as the trousers and pants were lowered to his ankles. John sat back a moment and enjoyed the vision that was Sherlock in all his glory. He couldn't quite believe what he was doing but his body acted as if on autopilot. He went to Sherlock's feet and removed his shoes, socks, and pulled the other garments the rest of the way off, shoving them off to the side of the bed. And then he was kneeling at the edge of the bed, faced with his friend's arousal. He'd never done something like what he was thinking about doing before and though it never occurred to him to do it, it wasn't at all as revolting as he thought it might be. In seamless movement, he was at once upon Sherlock and took him in his mouth, feeling the hard length of him against his teeth.

"Oh god! John!" The shouts seemed uncontrollable to Sherlock and he almost wondered if he'd said them at all. John hummed in agreement and it just proved to drive the sleuth more insane. John hadn't had much experience with men but he'd heard a thing or two from friend's or the telly and so he grabbed the lotion by his friend's hips and applied a decent amount to his hands and fingers. He kept his current occupation going with one hand while the other dipped below Sherlock's hind and found his core there. He worked the tension out of his friend, one digit at a time until the taller man was gyrating in protest. John removed his mouth and tasted the saltiness of his friend at the creases of his lips, wiped away the spit with the back of his hand, and moved upward to capture Sherlock in another deep kiss.

Their lengths pressed together and the detective noted that John was still fully clothed and that had to be rectified. Sherlock gripped the bottom of John's jumper and shirt and in one foul swoop, pulled the garments from his abdomen, ruffling the shorter man's hair in an endearing fashion. He moved to work on the trousers, quickly releasing the button and enabling John to kick them off to the side. John clumsily searched the wrinkled comforter for the rubber he'd thrown on the bed earlier, burying his hands into the sheets and finally gripping his treasure in hand. Sherlock lie wrecked on the bed, trying to regain his breath as John fumbled at applying the protection.

"Are you okay?" John rested his head on his friend's shoulder after he finally succeeded, chest heaving from exertion, and poised himself at Sherlock's buttocks. Sherlock nodded his head in exhaustion, not quite sure if he meant it but too dazed to think critically about the situation. Ever so slowly, John eased forward, slowly breaching his friend's entrance.

"_Fuck me sideways_!" Sherlock hissed at the stinging sensation and fought the urge to clench but John knew to wait and soon the pain faded. Once John felt that Sherlock was ready, he began to move slowly, grasping his friend's arousal and keeping pace with his motions. It didn't take long for them both to be sweating and panting. "Sherlock," breathed John, one hand clasped his friend's, their fingers woven together, and the other was gripping his shoulder for leverage.

"I don't think-for much longer," he gasped.

"It's okay, it's okay," Sherlock was able to get out, digging his free hand into the cool sheets beside them. Shortly thereafter and John was groaning out Sherlock's name, collapsing on top of him in a heap and Sherlock followed him swiftly, hot jets shooting between their stomachs.

Sherlock felt like he was riding a high that he'd never come down from and John was just a languid mess above him. The doctor rolled off of his friend, thinking he might be too heavy for the man, and lay closely beside him. They stayed like that for what seemed like endless hours, just breathing in each other's company. Soon they were both nodding off, John tucked under Sherlock's arm, and they're hands clasped together over his heart. It was difficult to ever be in the position to say 'the day started normally' when a person was the flat-mate of one Sherlock Holmes, but as things went, the day had started normally at 221b Baker Street, but they had ended on an altogether different note.

Fin.


End file.
